


Consummatum Est

by sdklr



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Between Episodes, Fluff, Interlude, Love Confessions, M/M, Sexual Interfacing, The Transformers: Lost Light, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdklr/pseuds/sdklr
Summary: A moment's respite before Tailgate and Cyclonus are plunged into their final adventure. Takes place sometime between the scenes of Lost Light 21.





	Consummatum Est

When the Lost Light touched down, everyone was told they could go to their quarters. Recharge, repair, reacquaint themselves with any belongings they might have missed. How long did they have? An hour, maybe two? A whole night? The red rip in the sky cast a portentous glow on the crew as they loaded the recovering sparkeaters on stretchers. They would stay grounded no longer than necessary.

Cyclonus and Tailgate had found each other in the mob, pulled together by their own private gravity. Cyclonus was blackened with soot but unharmed, and there was a brightness in his optics which Tailgate knew meant he was anxious, or jubilant, or possibly berserk. When Tailgate approached him, the warrior dropped to one knee and held out his arms. He smelled of burnt fuel and energon.

Neither of them knowing what precisely to say, they spoke at the exact same time.

“Getaway is dead,” said Cyclonus.

“Hi you,” said Tailgate.

On their way up the gangplank, Tailgate filled the silence with nervous, effervescent chatter, relating his side of the adventure with enthusiasm and a good deal of hyperbolic relish. (“We had to hold the door shut with, like, _our bare hands_. For hours!”) Cyclonus listened and kept quiet, watching Tailgate intently, memorizing his gesticulations, the springy gait of his delicate feet, the way his visor lit up with pleasure at telling the warrior a particularly good bit in his story. Every now and then Cyclonus would say “Oh?” or “Is that so?” simply to keep Tailgate talking, that he might continue to have the pleasure of hearing the minibot’s hoarse, tremulous, excitable voice.

Before they knew it, they were back in their habsuite. Door shut, ship noise muffled. Nobody had disturbed their meagre possessions. The light next to Tailgate’s berth was still on, and from an adjacent drawer came faint, tinny music: he’d left something playing on repeat.

“Does it seem _small_ to you?” said Tailgate.

Cyclonus smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“But only since we left? Maybe everything else got bigger.”

For the room seemed much smaller than either of them remembered. How had they fit in here together? All this time, their beds had been nearly touching; they had to brush against one another to get past. There was only one chair. When Cyclonus turned around, his blunt wings knocked against the wall. To think they’d shared this space for so long without questioning their intimacy, standing hip to shoulder at the window, jostling past one another on the way in and out, impatiently, aggressively, awkwardly, sensually. By berthlight they’d reach for each other across the space between their slabs and murmur sleepily into the dark: Tailgate telling jokes with baffling, misremembered punchlines, Cyclonus telling stories from the palace of winds. Cyclonus would watch Tailgate fall into recharge and hold him down when the fits began, hiding from him later the gouges and crushed metal.

There was a clatter as Cyclonus took off his sword. He stooped suddenly and lifted Tailgate off the ground, spinning him so they were face to face. Tailgate laughed with surprise, leaning forward to tuck his head under the warrior’s chin.

“No,” said Cyclonus, holding him back. His voice – already rough, his accent like rocks tumbled in a bowl – was rougher and thicker than usual, from smoke or exhaustion or something else. “Let me look a you. Just let me look at you.” He cupped Tailgate’s helm with the talons of one hand. Dark red optics burned out from their deeper darkness.

“We may not have much time alone.”

“Cyclonus…”

“But if you would let me— if it would please you, little one….”

He trailed off self-consciously, stroking Tailgate’s plating where he held him. From outside in the passageway came muffled voices, footsteps, laughter. The noise crested and died away, and Tailgate’s vents let out an inadvertent whoosh of air. Cyclonus tried again.

“We... never formalized our bond. It is something I regret. And now there is no time. There are prayers, observances….” His clawed servos pressed with grace and persuasion against the metal of Tailgate’s thighs, as if to give to voice to his desire in a way that words could not. “This is not how I imagined it--”

“Shut up,” said Tailgate, softly, fiercely. Threads of light ribboned from his visor, and with shock Cyclonus realized he was close to weeping. “It’s fine, don’t you see? We’re here together. Only let’s be happy. Come on. We’ve had a hard time. Come lie down with me.”

They decided on one berth or another – it must have been Tailgate’s, for there were knickknacks and energon treats that needed to be brushed aside. Neither of them knew quite how they ought to lie together. For all their courage, they were shy in this way, and discovered each other slowly. They came close and moved apart, touched and withdrew, until the layers that protected them began to drop away. Cyclonus didn’t have Getaway’s suavity; he was virginal, young for his years; his kisses were ardent and tentative and clumsy and rough. But he took direction well, moving wherever Tailgate’s small, strong, clever hands impelled him.

And he saw Tailgate exactly as he was: a sturdy treasure entrusted to his keeping, powerful and inexhaustible. His construction blessed him with a high tolerance for pain. When Cyclonus moved over him and locked in him in a hard, instinctual, punishing embrace, Tailgate could only think, with justifiable pride, that Rewind could never take what he was taking now.

He also thought: _I’m dreaming._ For it was so like the dreams he’d had on Necroworld, when the darkness took hold of him and his life began to slip away. Sweet, sad, piercingly lonely dreams of Cyclonus coming to him, lifting him up out of the ground, whispering in his audial all the things he longed to hear. _Sweet, treasure, cherished, love._

They coupled, and talked, and coupled again, losing track of the hour, like newsparks who did not think of tiring at their play. They learned the secrets of each other’s frames. Cyclonus’ left horn – the prosthetic – carried no sensation, but his right, when held, coaxed from the warrior such a growl of pleasure and frustration that Tailgate pulled it, hard, just to hear the noise again.

They were cleaning each other when Rodimus’ voice came over the PA. _All hands to the bridge._ Tailgate was fastidious and efficient when it came to such things, but he couldn’t erase all trace of what had happened in the past hours. They were filthy and they ached from their joining.

_Grab someone you love, folks--_

“We need to go, little one.”

“Just let me…” Tailgate wiped away one last smudge of grime.

_Grab someone you love._

“Just let me look at you.”


End file.
